On Dean's Watch. Linda Winstead Jones
this case, keeping an eye on Pinchon’s family and acquaintances. Most of them were in Virginia and North Carolina, where Eddie had spent much of his life. Maybe the escapee would be foolish enough to go see his mother, or his cousin and business partner, or his drinking buddies. Then again, maybe not. He had to know the authorities would be watching and waiting. But could he turn his back on a woman like this one?
“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “He’ll be here.”
Alan didn’t immediately retire to his room, but leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “Connie hates these things.”
Connie was wife number two for Alan, and it looked as if they were going to make things work. They’d been married six years, had two kids—a boy and a girl—and Connie was all Alan talked about when they were away from home. After a few days Dean got damned tired of hearing about Connie and the kiddies. Alan was so happy these days, so domestic. Every now and then, Alan’s domestic bliss got downright annoying.
“What about what’s-her-name?” Alan asked brightly. “The brunette. Penny, Patty, Pansy—”
“Patsy,” Dean said sharply.
“Patsy,” Alan said, as if he hadn’t remembered the name of Dean’s latest love interest all along. “Is she ticked off? Again?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Dean’s voice remained flat. “I haven’t seen her in three months.” And they hadn’t had much of a relationship for at least three months before the final break.
There was a moment of telling silence. “Thank God,” Alan finally said with a long, expelled breath of relief. “She was such a…well, I hate to use the word bitch, but really, what other word is there? I’m glad you finally got smart and dumped her. All she ever did was complain. You’re never home, you’re home too much, we can’t make any plans—” Alan stopped speaking abruptly. “Wait a minute. Three months. You dumped her three months ago and you didn’t tell me?”
Dean continued to study the house across the street. “Actually she dumped me.” Not that he’d cared by that point. Their relationship, if you could call it that, hadn’t been good for a very long time.
“Ouch,” Alan said softly.
“Don’t you need to get some sleep?” Dean asked, anxious to let this tired subject go.
“In a minute.” Alan moved closer, his steps surprisingly soft on a tightly woven rug. “You know what your problem is?”
Dean sighed. “No, but I imagine you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re all about the job,” Alan said in a kind voice.
“So are you.”
“Not anymore.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Alan shake his head. “I love the job. I don’t want to do anything else, ever. But not knowing how to leave it behind at the end of the day cost me my first marriage. These days, when I go home, I leave the job outside the door. If I didn’t, I would have found myself tossed out of marriage number two years ago.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a saint.”
“No, you’re the saint, buddy-boy,” Alan countered. “You have a real Boy Scout complex. Save the world, save the family, take care of everybody and his brother. And all the while, you do everything by the book. Didn’t you ever ask yourself what about me? What about my needs?”
Dean glanced at his partner. “Have you been watching Oprah again?”
Alan blushed. “Just a little. And that new psychologist she has on every week is a pretty smart guy.”
“Go to bed.” Dean returned his attention to the telescope, listening to Alan’s retreating footsteps. It was going to be a long damn stakeout if his partner insisted on dissecting Dean’s personal life along the way.
A woman rounded the antebellum house across the street, her stride slow and easy, and Dean shifted the telescope in her direction. For a split second her face was hidden by a low-lying limb, the leaves dancing this way and that in a soft morning breeze. All he could see was the swish of a full yellow skirt that hung well below her knees, the gentle swing of an arm. And then, two steps later, Dean saw her clearly.
At first glance, he was certain this woman was not Reva Macklin. Her hair was a soft dark blond and had been pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her dress was loose-fitting and simple. She wore little, if any, makeup. But he focused on the face, on the shape of her nose and the curve of her cheek, and with an unexpected thump of his heart he realized this was her. She’d grown up since the picture on the wall had been taken, and she’d discovered a touch of class along the way. She was not what he’d expected, but the woman walking through the grass with a serene expression on her face was definitely Reva Macklin.
She had changed remarkably, but she remained beautiful. Had she always been graceful, or was that new? It was impossible to tell from a photograph if she had always carried herself this way. A photograph only revealed so much. Reva Macklin was more than beautiful. She carried herself with elegance and possessed a femininity that might make any man’s mouth water.
Yeah, sooner or later Eddie Pinchon would show up in Somerset, Tennessee. Dean and Alan would be waiting.
The kitchen was in chaos as usual, but it was the kind of organized chaos Reva was accustomed to.
Most of her employees were older women. Tewanda Hardy was in her thirties, and Nicole Smith—a kindergarten teacher who only worked summers and Saturdays—wasn’t yet twenty-five, but the others were of another generation. They were gray-haired, spry and between the ages of sixty-one and seventy-two. Some of them helped with the cooking, others served as hostesses. A few worked only one day a week, others worked four or five. They all thrived on doing what they did best: cooking, cleaning and telling old friends and tourists tall tales of life in this small Southern town and of the exciting battle that took place just outside the city limits—in 1863.
“Did you hear?” Miss Frances said as she worked the biscuit dough. “Evelyn has rented her apartment to two men from out of state. They come from Georgia, I believe she said.”
Reva’s ears perked up as she recalled the man she’d met last night.
“Really?” Miss Edna said as she peeled an apple that would become part of a huge pot of stewed apples she’d prepare later this morning. “Are they tourists?”
“Evelyn wasn’t sure,” Frances said in a lowered voice. “The gentlemen wouldn’t say exactly why they’d come to town.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “We have so few tourists who actually stay here in Somerset, especially in the spring. Though there is that nice couple who comes here every fall to watch the leaves turn. Most tourists prefer the hotel out on the highway or one of the isolated cabins, especially the younger folks. It’s very odd, if you ask me. I can’t believe Evelyn would rent rooms in her house to strangers who won’t even tell her why they’re here.”
“Well,” Edna said, leaning in close but not lowering her voice, “she does need the money. And she sleeps with her daddy’s shotgun beside her bed and she knows how to use it, so I feel sure she’s safe.”
Gossip was another pastime Reva’s employees enjoyed. And two strangers in Somerset? This was definitely juicy gossip. Reva decided not to tell them she’d met one of the strangers last night. It would too soon become a part of the gossip, and she preferred to keep a low profile, when possible.
“Perhaps we should have a word with the gentlemen this afternoon,” Frances suggested. “Just to be sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”
Reva smiled as she cleaned and chopped the okra in front of her. No matter who or what Dean and his friend were, she had to feel a little bit sorry for them.
“Maybe one of them will come calling on Reva,” Edna said with a sly smile. “Evelyn said they were handsome young men, though one of them has a bit of a potbelly. Nothing horrible,